Male Bonding (Part 4)

The game continued. Under the table, Jared had finished with Jared cock, and at his son’s orders had begun sucking off the remaining four men, while Maurice crawled around with him, draining bladders as the men needed–and they needed to often, as Trevor kept forcing drinks down their throats, and kept lighting more and more cigars for each of them. Kirk went down next–he’d never had that good of a poker face. Trevor had him eating out his armpits within moments, and then made the middle aged man get on his knees, and beg him to allow him the honor of licking his feet clean. Trevor was all too happy, but forced him to untie his shoes and pull off his socks with his teeth–and then made him promise that he wouldn’t shower more than once a week from that day on, and never with soap or deodorant–all the better to enjoy his own stink, right? Kirk was more than happy to agree, as he shoved his nose between Trevor’s toes and took it great heaving, piggish snorts, running his entire tongue from heel to toe, moaning and stroking his own cock like mad. He shoot on the floor, and Trevor made him lick it clean, before ordering him under the table as well to give the remaining three players foot massages and to lick them clean.

Carter, Dustin, and Ryan were the only remaining players. A strong rivalry had developed between Carter and Dustin, between ruler and usurper. It didn’t help that, with the fewest clothes, they each were the most vulnerable at being removed next. Ryan, on the other hand, still had the most clothes, and he was more than happy to keep it that way. He lost a few more, but it was Carter who fell next, pulling off his underwear as Trevor strode over, laughing. “Oh, and the boss falls! Still, we’ll have to find you something to sit on, don’t you think? Kirk! Get out here, and help me out with your boss here. Get on your hands and knees, Carter.”

Kirk was only too happy to clean out his boss’ hole. Well, at first he was disgusted, but the more he licked it, the more he…couldn’t stop. The more he enjoyed it. The more he loved the sensation of burrowing his tongue in there, getting it slick and wet. Trevor had to haul him away by the hair so he could line up his cock with Carter’s hole and slide it into the well opened hole, Carter immediately fighting the pleasure of it, of being penetrated, of being filled. His resistance didn’t last long, however, and he was shoving his whole body back, desperate to get more of Trevor’s cock inside him. Trevor told the two men at the table to get back to the game, that he had more to do with this pig here. A few rounds later, Carter was howling in some mixture of pain and pleasure as Trevor slipped his fist into his hole, the boss’ cock exploding across the carpet, Kirk diving for it and eating it up from the carpet. Trevor kept an eye on the heated battle going on between Dustin and Ryan. Neither had much left to lose in the game, and Dustin had come back from losing to being neck and neck. Ryan was terrified–but he hated Dustin, and he refused to lose to him. In the end, he counted the deck better, and beat him. Dustin was furious and went to jump across the table and throttle that “fat bitch,” but Trevor stopped him, and then told his father to take over loosening up his bosses’ asspussy for him. Jared dutifully got down and pushed his own fist in Carter’s hole in his son’s stead.

“Dustin, sit back down. Aren’t you hungry?”

“No I’m not fucking hungry, I’m–” he started to say, but Trevor shoved a slice of pizza in his mouth as he spoke.

“No fucker–you’re hungry. You’re fucking famished. You’re going to eat. You’re going to eat, and you’re not going to stop until I tell you to, got it?”

Dustin tried to fight the command, but he couldn’t. He went over to the mostly untouched snack table, and started stuffing his face with everything Laura, Maurice’s wife, had prepared earlier, shoving food in his mouth with his hands, terrified not only at the ferocity of his hunger, but also how horny he was at his sudden lack of control, at the sensation of his full gut.

Trevor ignored Dustin, however, and sat down next to Ryan. “Well done Ryan, looks like you win! Congrats–I kind of hope you’d be the one left standing.”

“Does…does that mean I can go? That…that you won’t do anything to me?”

Trevor laughed. “Let you go? Of course now, Ryan! No, you get the very best prize of all, in fact. No, forget…this. No, you’re a piece of shit, Ryan. Not because you’re fat–I love your size. No, because you’re the smartest fucker in this room, but you don’t believe it. You fucking hate yourself. No, Ryan. I’m not going to let you go–I’m going to kill everything in you that makes you weak, and then you’re going to help me break in these nasty sluts–how does that sound?”

Ryan tried to object, but Trevor just leaned in and started whispering in his ear. Slowly, Ryan stopped trying to fight back, and his face went…blank. Almost featureless, at the debauchery going on around them. Then, his mouth curled up into a smirk–a cruel smirk which was utterly alien to his face. His eyes took on new life, looking around him, at this nasty fucks around him, thinking about…about how much he was going to enjoy this. How much he’d always craved this, this ability to become a brutalizer, and he’d never even known it was inside him all along. Trevor released him, and he immediately got up from his chair, went over to Dustin, and started feeding him, faster than he could hope to keep up with, mocking him as he gagged and choked, trying to swallow everything Ryan shoved into him, and he smiled at Trevor. Trevor–he’d enslaved all of these men, sure, but not him. No, he’d simply told Ryan how to be free.

Rick and The Beast (Part 2)

Another three texts, all from The Beast. Rick ignored them like usual, but he sounded more pissed off than usual. It had been two weeks since he’d been raped at that party, and The Beast had texted him almost non-stop since, demanding that Rick come over and let him plow his hole, or meet him around campus to suck his cock. Rick was so stressed out that he was failing half his courses. He couldn’t report it–who would believe him? And even if they believed him, Jim was a god to this school–if people found out he’d accused him of not only raping him, but of being gay…no, that just wasn’t a possibility. It didn’t help that his obsession with the jock Jim had given him was only growing stronger. The only way he could get a load out was with it stuffed in his mouth or pressed to his nose, and he always imagined the most vile, exciting fantasies. But the texts had turned into threats lately. He did everything he could to avoid The Beast, and anyone else, and in particular had started eating very late at night, or skipping meals altogether, to avoid the crowd of students. That night, when he was sitting alone, and a hulking figure started crossing the room towards him, he realized this had been an error of judgement. He started packing up his stuff, but before he could escape, Jim had slid into the booth, where Rick was seated, pinning him to the wall.

“Let me see your phone, fuckpig,” The Beast said, and when Rick did nothing, he rummaged through Rick’s pockets until he found it, made him unlock it, and checked the text messages. “You have been getting them, you fucker!” he said, “I thought you might have given me the wrong number, but you’ve been fucking ignoring me. People don’t fucking ignore me, pig.”

“Please, I’m sorry, but I don’t…”

“I don’t give a fuck what you do or don’t do,” The Beast said, throwing up an arm. The stench of his pit washed over Rick, but he felt that same feeling he’d felt in the hallway, the same feeling when he picked up the jock in his room, his heart in his throat beating fast, his cock hardening, “Lick it.”

Rick already had his tongue out before The Beast gave the order, burying his face in that stinking armpit, thirsty for his sweat. He felt like he was drunk again, even though he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since that party.

“Now open up your laptop there, unlock it for me, and then get under the table. We’ve got a couple of hours to waste, and I don’t want to get bored.”

Rick did as he asked, and then crawled under the table. It was a tight fit for him, but he saw The Beast already had his cock hanging out for him.

“Edge me, pig. If I cum, I break your laptop. If I get soft, I break your face–got it?”

The task proved harder than he’d expected. The Beast’s cock ran on a hair trigger, and while he was generous enough to warn Rick that he was getting close, balancing him on the edge took all of his concentration…but he enjoyed it. He enjoyed running his tongue under The Beast’s foreskin. He liked sucking on the head, the feel of it pushing down his throat, the taste of his balls and precum. He had his own cock out and was jacking it off under the table, and while The Beast never came, he shot three loads over the next two hours, until the kitchen closed and the last of the staff had left the building.

By that point, the stench had settled over Rick’s mind like a fog–he would have done anything The Beast told him to do at that point. They got up, The Beast telling him he’d be punished for cumming without permission later, and went around behind the building. The beast stacked up a couple of milk crates and told Rick to sit on them, and then said, “Now pig, as punishment for not responding, we’re going to have a little feeding session. Fresh food’s too good for a pig like you though, so you’re going to be eating trash.”

The kitchen had already tossed the extra product from that day, and it was still tepid from the warming trays. Rick tried not to vomit–The Beast told him that if he vomited, he’d make him eat it all back up. Eventually he got used to it, and when The Beast thought he’d suffered enough, Rick’s gut taut with thrown out food, he told him to get on his hands and knees, and he fucked his ass in the alley. Between the pain of his ass and his stuffed gut, he wanted to just die, but instead, he shot another load of cum onto the pavement beneath him, when The Beast’s massive cock slammed into his prostate.

“God damn it, pig fucker…” The Beast said, after he came and pulled out, “Lick up that fucking nasty cum of yours right fucking now.”

Not that, anything but that, and yet he was scooting back, his tongue scraping the cum up from the asphalt. Why was he doing this? Why was he letting The Beast do this to him? While he licked, he felt The Beast grab his cock and balls, fit something over them, and then heard the click of a padlock.

“As punishment for cumming without my permission, we’re just going to keep you locked up from now on. If you start acting like a good piggy, and respond to my texts, and don’t refuse a single meet up for the next month, I’ll let you shoot once. Oh, and one more thing pig–”

The Beast stood up, aimed his cock at Rick, and unleashed a torrent of piss.

“You’re mine. Got it? Fucking mine.”

He soaked every inch of his clothes down to the skin, and then put away his cock and left without another word, leaving Rick shivering in the cold, wondering how any of this could get any worse.

(To be continued at some later date???)

We met through a cigar group. I was new–he was a founding member. My relationship with cigars, at that point, was little more than curiosity backed by fascination–the sexuality of it too, I guess. I had smoked them a few times, always jacking off while I did, but I knew next to nothing about them, or what to smoke. A few guys I chatted with online recommended the group to me, and I figured I might as well go to one. I was hardly someone to be as nervous as I was then–muscled, young, gay but passing–I could have anyone I wanted, and usually that translated into cockiness, but plunged into a group of cigar smokers while knowing next to nothing, I was a bit intimidated. If Nate hadn’t been so welcoming and jovial, I probably wouldn’t have gone back for a second outing.

I usually hated chubby guys. I mean, they’re just slobs at heart, they don’t care about themselves, about their bodies, about their health. So I tolerated Nate, I guess, since he was in charge. Actually it was hard to get a word in–he dominated the conversations like he dominated the space with his huge frame. It was a turn off, to say the least…and yet…maybe even then, I was just deluding myself about that, like I was about everything else. He was certainly interested in me, and made no attempt to hide it. In fact, I became a sexual joke for him–he would go into these strange scenarios with the two of us, ask me to take our shirts off so we could compare, apron to abs. He was more articulate than I was, smarter too, more knowledgable. Anything I could talk about, he could too, but better, with more humor, with more interest. And so I listened instead, trying to figure out why this huge, obese man fascinated me as much as the cigars we smoked together, when every other fat man I’d ever met was so easily dismissible before this one.

He showered me with favors, bought me expensive cigars at group outings to cigar shops. The tobacco was fabulous, and after the fourth or fifth meeting, he invited me back to his home for a tour of his humidor, with plenty of innuendo. I…I was curious. I was curious about my own budding attraction to him. I thought that, maybe, if we could just have sex, or if I could just see his (hopefully disgusting) body without clothes, I could maybe shed this growing desire. His humidor was massive–a small climate controlled room in his massive house. Wealthy, rich as fuck. The money he has, I had no idea what I’d do with it. It’s no wonder he succumbs to food–as rich as he is, he can afford to become obsessed. He was overly generous. The cigars he offered gave me a high closer to strong pot than tobacco. I was out of it; he stripped off my shirt and felt my body. I kept trying to take off his clothes, trying to take back some kind of control, but he remained stubbornly clothed. Soon, I was naked, he was not. He touched me everywhere, and I let him. I expected him to suck me off–I expected him to want to consume me, like a cigar, but instead he pushed me to my knees, and fucked my face, came, made me jack off while he watched, and then we shared a glass of bourbon. He kept me naked the whole time, I let him stare at me, and then went home, somewhat disgusted, but more aroused than anything I had experienced.

I went over to his house more often after that. I found myself unable, or unwilling, to turn down any invitation. It was months before I saw him naked, but by that point any possibility that he could disgust me enough to abandon sex was out of the question. I was attracted to him. When he fucked, it was like nothing else–I was strong, and yet he could (and often did) crush the breath out of me. He made me feed him. He made me clean every sweaty fold of his flabby body. I was the one devouring him. I was the one with the addiction. I soon stopped smoking cigars, and stopped attending group meetings. He was the new object of my fetish–the smoke he fed me in our kisses was far more powerful than anything else I’d ever tasted.

He grew more demanding, and I accommodated him. I shaved my body smooth, from head to toe. I started practicing with dildos at home, so I could take his cock without resistance. I learned how to cook, and the weekends I spent at his home would often be consumed with feeding his hunger more than fucking my holes. He sent me a particularly exhausting exercise routine, and I followed it religiously. he introduced me to his dungeon soon after that. I had noticed the stairs down into the basement before, but when he led me down into the space filled with all manner of bondage and pain equipment…I was eager. I asked him to show me everything, to use it on me. He was more than happy to do so, and then he showed me to small room off to the side–a windowless cubby barely large enough to fit a cot and a small chest. He told me I would move in with him–that I could bring only enough that might fit in the chest, and everything else would be sold off. I told him no, that I couldn’t–so he beat me until I came twice over and asked again. I agreed.

My new life revolved around him. The demands of my body became more extreme. Every week, a new tattoo or piercing. Soon, I could barely even recognize myself. I worked out more than ever, I cooked all of his meals, he paid me in fucks, pain, bondage, and smoke. For two years, I haven’t left this mansion. It is my home, my prison and my sanctuary. In my chest, I have a small collection of photos I printed out to keep, and I compare my selves. Who was I? This freak with the tattooed face and head, with padlocks hanging from my nipples, with my balls weighted down six inches? I have never been happier, but…

I can’t finish the thought in any manner that rings true. I lock up my photos. It’s time to start cooking dinner anyway.

~~~

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Commission: The Secrets of Fitzroy Abbey (Part 2)

Commissioned by Anonymous

It had been a whole week now–should he count himself lucky? Surely it could have been worse, right? Then why did it feel like he was sitting here, just waiting for the Master Fitzroy’s other perfectly shined shoe to drop? Mr. Windsor mopped up the gravy on the plate with a hunk of bread, and then got up from the table. He was still hungry, but the cooks had given him a sour look when he’d gone in for a third helping. Why the kitchen was still so busy at this time of evening was a bit of a mystery to him, but he was thankful for the extra food all the same. His gut was pleading for food all the time now, and he no longer had the willpower to resist the temptation to eat every chance he got. Mr. Livingston, however, had looked absolutely delighted when he’d seen Mr. Windsor’s plate piled high with food. He’d been an especially smug twat all week, ever since the master had sentenced Mr. Windsor to another round of edification, but if all Mr. Windsor had to deal with was an insatiable hunger, he would count himself lucky. He’d been especially on guard with himself all week, desperately trying to check himself and his actions, searching for anything new about himself that the Master had intended him to not notice. Still, he was almost certain he had forgotten something important…but what?

A bell rang. It struck Mr. Windsor with a pang of deja vu. He could remember…he could almost recall…

“Room 205–is that one of yours, Mr. Windsor?”

He started, and looked up into the face of another servant, Mr. Hooker. He had been here longer than Mr. Windsor, but not so long that he had forgotten himself entirely like Mr. Livingston. From their casual dealings, he seemed to be a firm pragmatist about their situation here. “N–No. I do believe Mr. Williams is assisting that guest.”

Mr. Hooker sighed, “He’s probably sobbing in his room. I’ll go fetch him.”

Mr. Williams was slightly newer than them both, and still spent much of his personal time lamenting his new position. While everyone regarded him with a bit of pity, they all hoped he would resign himself soon. His weeping tended to keep the men in the rooms next to him up at night.

Alone in the room, Mr. Windsor considered actually licking his plate clean, but besides feeling it might be a bit humiliating if someone walked in, it also seemed to be outside the bounds of his required decorum. He hefted himself up to return the plate to the kitchen for washing, when Mr. Livingston poked his head in.

“I thought I’d find you in here, stuffing yourself,” he said, with a rather cruel grin, “The Master of the House requests your presence in the dining room, immediately.”

Apparently, this snide tone was the sound of the other shoe. His heart thumping loudly in his ears, his nose reddening, he stood up and made his way to the main floor of the abbey, and saw that evening had well and truly passed into twilight. The rest of the guests were in their rooms or out on the grounds, enjoying themselves and each other as the master wished, but Master Fitzroy was not among them. He was standing in the dining room, with a stocky, heavy gutted, fat faced cook from the kitchen, someone Mr. Windsor didn’t recognize. He hadn’t heard that anyone new was joining the staff yet this summer–what was going on, and what did it have to do with him?

“Welcome Mr. Windsor,” Master Fitzroy said, “Would you kindly take a seat at the table? At the head there is fine, don’t be shy.”

He settled himself down into the chair usually reserved for the master himself, carefully, and stammered, “I–I’m not sure I know what is going on, sir.”

“Oh, I know you do not, yet. I simply wanted to take this chance to personally re-introduce you to our newest member of the kitchen crew. His name is Mr. Bartholomew Marsden, but you were previously acquainted with him as the guest in room 307.”

Memories flashed back across his mind, memories the master had locked away from him for an entire week. How could he have forgotten them? How could he have forgotten…forgotten…his name, what had Mr. Marsden’s name been? Bar…Bart? No, that was the Master’s name for him! Not Bart, something…something else. Something else! He’d heard his old name too, but it was gone, they were both gone now.

“Following our discussion that evening, I called on Mr. Marsden, and suggested kindly that he forget all about what he had seen, but he proved…reluctant. In fact, he seemed determined to rescue you from service here, long before I planned on retiring you. After all, I don’t think you have learned your lesson quite yet, Rudolph. Regardless, Mr. Marsden became rather belligerent. I decided to bring him on as a temporary staff member–although, depending on his temperament, he could very well obtain a long term position like yourself…but we’ve already discussed that in detail, haven’t we, Mr. Marsden?”

“Yes…Yes sir…” the cook said, when the master stared at him. His puffy cheeks burned red, and he looked at the ground.

“Just so you are aware of our terms, Mr. Windsor, I have brought on Mr. Marsden as your private chef. You see, we have only a short six months until Christmas, and I realized that you would make an excellent Santa Claus to entertain my guests–but with your finicky eating, I doubted you would be able to obtain the girth needed for such a role. Mr. Marsden will be assisting you–and if he can fatten you up such that you are the heaviest man on staff by Christmas, then I have promised to terminate his employment here, and send him home in his original body, none the wiser. However, should he fail…well, he will be employed here for significantly longer.”

Mr. Windsor saw his friend gulp, and look away, his triple chin jiggling slightly.

“Now, as you may or may not know, it is Mr. Parker, the head chef, who is currently the largest servant here, weighing in at 42 stone, or just shy of 600 pounds! So, Mr. Marsden certainly has a lot of work to do…as do you, Mr. Windsor.”

“I…I think this situation is rather manipulative, sir,” Mr. Windsor said, in the kindest tone his tongue could force out, “I sincerely resent this, and suggest that, perhaps, you simply consider allowing us to go free, together.”

“Oh, Mr. Windsor, I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”

“Well, then I simply will have to refuse to eat.”

“Oh? Will you?” the master said, chuckling, “I’ve heard about your new appetite, Mr. Windsor. You seem to be rather insatiable. But you must realize how cruel you sound, to Mr. Marsden here. After all, if you don’t cooperate, he, too, will be employed here for the foreseeable future. Would you really consign him to such a fate, simply because you still have lessons to learn and reparations to make? You may be a fool, but you are not vicious, though you like to believe you are, like many fools.”

His bluff had been called, and he knew it. He remained silent.

“As I was saying, you both have quite a bit of work to do, and I am nothing, if not a fair sport. Mr. Marsden has been given the assistance of the entire kitchen staff for your first meal tonight, and I must say, they have prepared quite the feast for you. I’m confident that, by the end of the night, you will be happily stuffed.” The master plucked a bell off the table and rang it. The wait staff entered, bearing platters of food, easily enough to feed eight or ten guests. “And don’t think about leaving anything behind, Mr. Windsor–that would be so wasteful! Mr. Marsden will be on hand to ensure you finish every bite–including dessert, right Mr. Marsden?”

The fat man nodded, and the master took his leave of the dining room. The meal lasted well into the early hours of the morning. Mr. Windsor would stuff himself, but eventually resist, and stop. Mr. Marsden would begin feeding and encouraging him, telling him that if he escaped, he could bring help. Of course, they both knew that if he were retired, he would have no memory of his time as a cook in the master’s service, but it was enough of a hope to keep Mr. Windsor eating for another hour, and then another. Much to his horror, he realized that as he grew fuller and fuller, he was also becoming rather aroused. He enjoyed the sensation of a full belly, and in the midst of dinner, with a loud groan, he realized that he had cum for the first time in months, right into the crotch of his livery. It became clear that Mr. Marsden was enjoying his role as well, and while neither of them could remove their clothing, he would grind up against Mr. Windsor’s side until he too came, multiple times over the course of the meal.

Finally, they finished dessert, both of them exhausted. Mr. Marsden had to help Mr. Windsor up from the chair, and down to their private quarters, where they discovered they would be sharing a double room–the doubles were reserved for those pairs of servants who the master hoped would share a special relationship. Inside, Mr. Marsden helped Mr. Windsor undress, and then stripped off his own chef whites. Unable to even think of sleep so soon after such a meal, Mr. Windsor instead gawked at himself in the mirror, his old flabby body, his taut, bloated and stuffed gut. He was already over 300 pounds–how would he look with three hundred pounds more? He would need a new livery. He would have rolls of fat, rolls hanging off of rolls. He would…he would be so…so…sexy.

Yes, sexy. Yes, he could picture himself, stuffed into a suit slightly too small, the seams stretching a bit, the confinement, the knowledge that he was so large that the tailor had to make a uniform specifically for him. The guests would gawk, but…but he would want them to. He would be swine, and yet revel in it. And at Christmas–at Christmas! He would have a beautiful red velvet suit. Master found grow him a fabulous, snow white beard. Jolly, he would be so jolly, yes he would. He rubbed his belly, feeling his cock grow hard again. On one of the beds, Mr Marsden sat, feeling his own gut, covered with grey hairs, watching his old lover caress himself, feeling his own short, stubby cock grow hard as well. Mr. Marsden crossed the room, got down on his knees, and began massaging Mr. Windsor’s huge gut, heaving it up so he could find the small, two inch cock beneath and suck on it, working his own cock as he did, until they both came one final time. Finally exhausted, they climbed into their respective beds, both creaking under their weight, and dreamed of feedings to come, praying that they wouldn’t enjoy them as much as they secretly sensed they would.

The Tenth Day of Christmas

“You two are so close, and yet completely wrong for each other, how about we fix that, eh?”

Lars woke up, still groggy with sleep, trying to hold onto the dream he’d been having. He and Drew–his roommate and best friend–had been in it…but then Santa Claus? Dressed up like one of the leather guys the two of them were always making fun of at the club? Lars and Drew were both fairly young and fairly twinkish, and while they got along great–unfortunately neither one of them was the least bit sexually interested in the other. Lars was more into muscular, slightly older bearish guys, and Drew was, well, a bit of a chubby chaser. Still, they were friends, and good ones at that. Gay guys didn’t need to fuck to be friends.

Lars tried to roll over and get up out of bed, but found himself stuck–pinned down to the mattress by something. He opened his eyes and looked down, and saw that some sort of massive pink blanket had been thrown over him that was amazingly heavy. In fact, it was even hard for him to breathe. He tried to move again, and he watched the thing covering him ripple and waver, and he realized it wasn’t a blanket–it was him! He was so fucking fat, he couldn’t even get up out of his bed.

He lifted one huge arm and just stared at it, the flab hanging off his bones, buried deep inside somewhere, no wrist to be found just one pudgy hand with four bulbous fingers and a thumb. It was so massive, he was so massive, it was difficult to even piece together the sensations of himself, of all of him rubbing against himself, in every fold and crevice…

“How’s my sweet little piggy today?” a deep voice said outside the door to his room, and when it opened a moment later, Lars’ jaw dropped. There in the doorway was the hottest muscle bear he’d ever seen, wearing nothing but a jockstrap, beeming at him like he was the most important thing in the world. Unable to help himself, he gave a little snort of glee at the sight of Drew, his lover, as he came over and started massaging his flabby body. “Breakfast will be ready in a bit, but I just had to see my piggy for his Christmas kisses,” Drew said, and he made out with Lars’ fat face, neither one of them entirely sure that this was happening, but both of them too overwhelmed at the sight of their fantasies made real in the other that they couldn’t stop.

The food started then, and didn’t stop for hours. Lars had no idea where Drew was even getting it all, as the wave of breakfast slammed down into his gullet and ended with a smattering of snacks, Lars never not eating as Drew worshiped and pleasured himself in and on his immobile lover, leaving for more snacks before Lars could be empty handed, and then they were into lunch, and then dinner. At the end of the day, Lars hadn’t moved an inch, but he was exhausted, and he had a terribly wonderful feeling that there were going to be a lot more days like this one from here on out.

When he moved to a new city, Nate was happy to discover a gym was within running distance. He’d always loved lifting, but usually hated working out at big gyms, because there were too many amateurs fucking around while he wanted to get his workouts finished. This gym was independently owned though, and looked like it was made for serious guys looking for serious workouts. He joined up the next day, but the more he went, well, the more he just felt kind of out of place. He’d always been able to resist sizing himself up against his fellow gymrats, but the guys here were…well…massive. They must have been on steroids or something, but he never dared ask–not that he had a chance. The place was one giant clique, and he was on the outside of it, the other lifters always looking at him and laughing, which just made him feel self conscious.

It didn’t help that the lifters all looked like they had popped out of the same mold. Shaved heads, furry bodies, tattoos all over, usually working out shirtless. Nate wasn’t ashamed of his body, but he just didn’t fit in. Still, the owner of the gym was nice enough, and so one day he broached the topic.

“Hey,” Nate asked, “What’s the deal with all those guys?”

“Oh, they’re all Gold members is all–they take themselves pretty seriously.”

“Gold membership?”

“Oh, for serious lifters–you have to be sponsored by two other Gold members though to qualify,” the owner said, and then left, and Nate shrugged and went to leave, but then thought better of it, and walked over to the Gold members and decided to try and make some friends. Much to his surprise, they weren’t too mean at all, and they invited him out for drinks that evening. Of course, when the roofied him, and he woke up tied to a bed with a dildo up his ass, he realized they had other plans.

“So you want to be a Gold member?” the owner said, looming over him and laughing, “We don’t have any openings except for one–our club sex pig. Still you got everyone to sponsor you, so congrats! How about we start with the fattening, boys?”

The guys cheered and hooked the tube up to Nate’s mouth, and his new training regimen started. Still, he was a great success–he was a permanent fixture in the Gold Member’s Locker Room three months later, ready to serve.